NO WORDS_DAILY PIX BY HUGH CRAWFORD

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_DIFFICULT GOOD-BYES

Guess who’s coming home?

Yes, today is our last day on the farm. The last couple of days have been a weird kind of limbo. Betwixt and between, we’re not really here and we’re not in Brooklyn either.

The kids are so ready to come home. Twenty days away from Brooklyn is a lot. And they’re dying to see their friends.

The waning days of our summer vacation mean picking up all the clothes, toys, books, and other family detritus that has migrated to all parts of this big house.

It means taking care of the errands we promised we’d do while we were out here but never got around to.

It means finishing up the left-overs in the fridge and taking our last walks around the farm, saying good-bye to the goat, the vegetable garden, the walnut orchards, the barns, the cats, and the Giverney-esque garden created by my mother-in-law.

This year is especially sad because the farm is being sold to a local real estate developer, who  plans to build a McMansion on the far side of the farm with a grand staircase a la "Gone with the Wind," where he will live with his four brothers and their families.

It is, truly, the end of an era. 

My husband’s grandparents moved to this farm in 1928 from Los Angeles.
They raised 5 children here and ran an award winning Guernsey cattle dairy. There were also sugar beets, alfalfa, tomatoes, and other crops through the years.

My husband grew up on the farm in a small house intended as a guest house that grew in size as the years went on. His father planted the walnut orchards the year he was born. When his father died in the 1980′s, his mother (who grew up on the farm) decided to take over the farm. She’d never paid much attention to farming when her husband was alive, as she was busy raising the kids, and creating beautiful and inventive ceramic art. But after his death, she learned everything she needed to know about walnut farming and farmed the orchard for 20 years by herself with the help of a small staff.

Now in her seventies, she has just retired from farming and is busier than ever with her art-making, gardening, studying at the local community college, and swimming. A self-taught architect, she is also designing a new entrance way and a pool house for her home.

Most of her siblings have died, but their heirs feel strongly that it is time to sell the farm. She has made her peace with it and will still retain her beautiful home and the surrounding acreage.

I know my husband is deeply upset about the sale of the farm because he’s been very quiet and he sighs a lot ( a sign that he is full of worry or pain). Yesterday I asked what he was feeling and he said: "Overwhelmed. Y’know that sense of place thing."

These are like code words between us. This place means more to him than just about anything. He is rooted here like a big old oak tree. Losing the farm is like losing a limb. This farm IS who he is: creative, resourceful, reverent to the past, deeply connected to the place he is from.

I am very touched by his appreciation for the world his grandparents and parents created here: the houses and farm buildings his grandmother designed, his grandfather’s farm equipment, the John Deere tractors, and pick-up trucks. He loves the landscape – the orderly rows of trees in the orchards, the yellow Sierra foothills in the disance, the big, blue sky.  I know the next few months won’t be easy as the sale becomes a reality.

His sense of place in the world depends on this farm and it’s hard to say what will happen when it no longer belongs to his family.

I expect my husband to sigh a lot in the next few months. He’ll probably be pretty quiet as he mulls over this enormous change in his life. I’m hoping he’ll take the time to express his feelings to me. For one thing, I like to be clued in, but I also think it helps to let it out so it doesn’t burn you up inside.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_BROOKLYN SUMMER

by Susan Dorrington
OTBKB Guest Writer

Our fourth summer in Brooklyn is drawing to a close.

We moved here from Enfield in north London in July 2001. Enfield sits in that indefinable outer rim of a sprawling metropolis – not quite gritty inner-city, not quite leafy suburbia. It aspires to both, but feels like neither.

In comparison, we feel like true city dwellers here in Park Slope, with its bustling avenues and Manhattan just a hop, skip and jump away. We felt at home here as soon as we clambered out of the yellow cab from the airport onto Third Street. I remember standing in our backyard on those first few evenings, giddy with excitement at the prospect of our new beginning, watching fireflies with child-like awe and inhaling the aroma of a Brooklyn night – a curious mix of laundry from the basements and garlic from the restaurants hanging in the steamy air.

The sounds of Park Slope filled our ears like a movie soundtrack –
children on the sidewalks, neighbors on their stoops, sirens on Seventh and bursts of jazz escaping from open windows, a trumpet here, a saxophone there rising above the endless thrum of air conditioners. If Enfield had a soundtrack, we didn’t hear it, cooped up in our homes, windows shut against cool, gray skies.

In England, children have a six week ‘summer holiday’ from school. In my childhood those six weeks seemed endless. So, at first, we were vaguely alarmed to discover our children would have a ten week summer vacation in Brooklyn. But we have slipped effortlessly into the ways of a Brooklyn summer – sports camps, drama camps, picnics in the park, long lazy days at the beach and filling the time at home. September rolls around quickly enough. Meanwhile, in the UK, academic bureaucrats are trying to reduce the six week summer holiday to as little as three, fearful that the UK’s children will forget how to form a paragraph, do long division or spell bureaucracy if left to have fun for too long. I hope, for the sake of the young friends we left behind, they don’t
succeed.

There’s just a week or so left now before school begins. Nearly
everyone is back from their travels. The boys flit from playdate to
playdate with the ease of bees from flower to flower. Our friends are mostly just a few blocks stroll away; in Enfield, getting to friends’ houses or even the store to pick up milk meant a trip in the car.

We need to get down to Staples, pick up some composition notebooks and pencils; we need to rummage through the boys’ clothes, check they have at least one t-shirt each without pizza stains and holes; we need to adjust our routines so those early starts are not such a shock, get our brains geared up for the rigors of fourth grade and seventh grade …

… but most of all we just want to enjoy the last few precious days of our Brooklyn summer, making the most of our adopted city which still feels like home.

NO WORDS_DAILY PIX BY HUGH CRAWFORD

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_CARLESS IN BROOKLYN

by Lisa Malcolm
OTBKB Guest Writer

One of the things I love about living in New York is being able to get around without a car.  My partner, Jen, would probably tell you that’s a big fat lie because I whine at any opportunity about wanting to have a car.  True, I do believe it would be great to be able to load up all the gear we need to take our 4-year-old to the beach into a handy car, instead of lugging it to the train station.  At the same time, though, I love living in a place that can be, indeed, needs to be appreciated at a street level.  How much street art would I miss if I was zooming through Gowanus in a car?  How many friends would I miss running into as they sit outside at a local eatery?  And how much do I love bike-riding with Emma sitting in her cool European bike seat that’s placed in the front instead of behind me, so that she can see what I see and tell me about it?

Yes, trying to get around Brooklyn without a car can often be… frustrating, to be euphemistic.  G train?  What G train?  And when the weekend rolls around, don’t even think about trying to catch the F train at 9th Street, because it will just fly by you as it inexplicably skips stop after stop.  Even the buses on 7th Avenue and on Union Street – major Slope arteries, right? – apparently run only on days of the week that have an “n” in them and then only between 3 and 5 pm.  But bless the B63 that takes me up and down 5th Avenue to 9th Street when I’m feeling lazy, or in the other direction to Target and the Atlantic LIRR station for shopping and beach escapes.  I’ve seen those buses chugging along in ten minute intervals in the middle of fierce blizzards, although of course they’re always running late when we’re trying to get to the subway in a hurry. 

When I lived in the East Village and worked in Midtown, I would take the bus, instead of the subway whenever possible.  I particularly loved seeing Union Square Park change with the seasons, as the leaves darkened and fell and the buildings on the other side from Park Avenue South came into sight.  Before I had my daughter, I would even take the time in the evening to walk home.  The carnival of people – natives, tourists, deliverymen – going about or finding their way, was a constant reminder to me of the “eight million stories” (as a rapsong from the 80s put it) that make living in this city like living in a novel.

Now that I’m a bit older and settled down, I enjoy the familiar as much as the variety of the city.  My favorite walk is heading home after picking up my daughter from daycare at Beansprouts.  Watching her run down tree-lined 6th Avenue, stopping to walk the balance beam tree guards or hide behind a mailbox, makes me think maybe it’s not so bad living in a small apartment in an over-priced metropolis, even as I’m lugging her lunchbox, swimming gear, and art projects on one shoulder, and my bag on the other.  Then again, it probably wouldn’t be so bad to have chats with her from the backseat of a little car, every now and then, either.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Mindlessness Meditation: Insomnia

by Nancy Graham
OTBKB Guest Writer   
         

My daughter was squirming next to me and when I got back in bed after taking her to the bathroom, I couldn’t get comfortable.

Jack Mercer, as Popeye, was singing the Dredel Song in my head. 

I know that makes no sense but it really keeps you awake, let me tell you.

Then
it was the "Chewing Chewing All Day Long" song from Charlie and the
Chocolate Factory. Danny Elfman really has a way with an earworm.

So many positions to try, and none of them lead to sleep.

The eye and jaw muscles:  so tense and unforgiving!

Crickets.  Sure are loud, aren’t they?

The funny thing is, in the winter, when the crickets are dead, our baseboard heat sounds just like them. 

My husband set up his computer to beep every five seconds before he went to bed.  Wonder why he did that?

He
had something perilously close to a job interview yesterday. Please
cross your fingers, say prayers or throw pennies in fountains for him.
Not forgetting for a moment your internal chant of World Peace, of
course.

Having updated myself, however provisionally, on the
smear campaign against Cindy Sheehan, I’m going to go take a hot bath
with stories by Stephen Dixon.

There goes a garbage truck, accelerating up Pine Street, punctuated every five seconds by a beep. 

OK,
I’m going. But before I go I’ll just post here a word chosen at random
from Webster’s New World Dictionary. It would be better to choose at
random from Random House but I don’t have that one.

Leech 2 n.
[LME lyche, akin to ON lik Du lijk, boltrope IE base *leig-, to bind,
fasten L ligare, to tie] 1 the after edge of a fore-and-aft sail 2
either of the vertical edges of a square sail.

Sample:  Next week my husband and I celebrate nine years of marriage—Happy Anniversary, my wind, my rudder, my leech!

NO WORDS_DAILY PIX BY HUGH CRAWFORD

NO WORDS_DAILY PIX BY HUGH CRAWFORD

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_WELCOME TO BROOKLYN DUCKY

My sister, bro-in-law and Sonya (Ducky) arrive in New York City on August 28th. And so begins their life in Brooklyn togehter.

And Brooklyn awaits with open arms. There is Seventh Avenue to be strolled (and no $800 dollar stroller for Ducky. She’s got a very tasteful McClaren, thank you very much).

Prospect Park will be Sonya’s stomping ground. She may even take her first steps there. Wait’ll she sees the Third Street, Ninth Street, and Tot Spot Playgrounds. Life’s a playground, Ducky. there are swings to swing, slides to slide, sandboxes to dig in. Wait till you see.

And Ducky, who already shows an interest in music, will enjoy Music Together with Toby Williams, or the hipster alternative: Music for Aardvarks, where the family can learn songs like: I’M A CITY KID:  "Beep Beep, honk, honk, can you spare a dime. Have a bagel with schmear and see the Guggenheim…" and other Aardvark classics.

There are so many one-year-olds for Ducky to befriend. My sister’s building is crammed with kids as is the rest of the Slope. The drop-in center at Beth Elohim will be a great place to meet and greet the nabe.

When I close my eyes, I can see my  sister on the bench at Connecticutt Muffin with Ducky in her stroller. Ducky will sip from her cup – she’s was weaned early from the bottle at the orphanage – while my sister has her morning coffee with all the other new Slope moms.

There’s much for a one-year-old and her parents to do in Park Slope. Parks, playgrounds, parties, and playdates. Ducky, you’re not in Perm, Russia anymore. (And if you miss Russia, Brighton Beach is just a hop, skip, and a jump.) No worry: you’ve landed in the land of children, where you will be loved and adored by your devoted family of friends and neighbors.

Welcome to Park Slope!

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_WRITER FRIEND

My friend, Marian Fontana, whose firefighter  husband, Lt. Dave Fontana, died on 9/11, will be on the radio show, This American Life, on August 27th and 28th.

The show’s theme is: Not What I Signed Up for and Marian’s segment is devastating and incredible. Check local listings for when the show is on in your area. In New York, it will be on at 11 a.m. on WNYC-AM (820 on the AM dial) on Saturday and Sunday. You can listen to it on-line at WNYC.org.

Trust me, you won’t want to miss this.

Since 1998, Marian and I have been in a writer’s group together. Approximately 8 of us (the number varies) meet every Tuesday in a dance studio in Park Slope. We sit in a circle of chairs and read our work – poetry, fiction, screenplays, non-fiction – aloud. We then make gentle comments about one another’s work: we are always honest but in a very constructive way.

Afterwards, we usually go out to a local bar like Two Boots or Santa Fe and talk into the night. My husband calls our group "Writers and Drinkers" because I often come home with the smell of Margaritas on my breath.

Marian started writing "A Widow’s Walk: A memoir of 9/11,"  in 2002. Week after week she would bring pages to the writer’s group from her work-in-progress. Writing is never easy and writing a memoir about such a painful time is even worse. But she diligently wrote the book in a cubicle at the Brooklyn Writer’s Space on Garfield Place in Park Slope. Naturally, it took longer than she expected. "Reliving that year over and over was like a quiet torture." she told me.

Often in writer’s group, her words made us cry. Other times, her sharp and witty observations made us laugh. Marian is a fantastic mimic, and passages of the book are thick with perfectly rendered dialogue. Marian read her work to us with the skill of the actress she is, accents and all.

The book, which we were privileged to witness from inception to final draft, will be published on September 7, 2005. I feel very attached to the work as I’ve read through it a number of times. It’s like an old friend. And now the world will share in it too. It’s kind of a strange feeling.

Marian and I spoke a lot over the years about how difficult it is to write about one’s life, especially if the work is to be published for all to see. Marian was careful not to hurt the feelings of friends and family. But she was always unremittingly honest. "There were some friends who were scared to see themselves in print. It’s very vulnerable to be written about," she told me. "But ultimately even people who were suspect or wary realized that I was coming from a place of compassion and love."

When I asked Marian why she decided to write the book in the first place, she said:  "I was very conflicted about writing the book. I didn’t want to exploit Dave. So I did a lot of soul searching; was this the right thing for me to do? I consulted Dave’s brother,  Ed. And he gave me good advice. He said that Dave wholeheartedly supported my talent when he was alive. And he also said that the book would be for  my son. Once he said that I felt so much better. And I always kept Aidan and Dave in the forefront of my mind."

The book is really a love story about Marian, Dave, and their son, Aidan. It is a record of her son’s life with Dave as well as the year after 9/11 when their lives were a whirlwind of grief and public scrutiny.

Knowing Marian as I do, I am pretty sure that all the attention, the interviews on TV, the features in Vanity Fair and other magazine won’t go to her head. She’s one of the most down-to-earth people I know and a great friend, even when she’s overwhelmed by events in her busy life. She’s there when you need her and I look forward to seeing her in her writer’s group chair the next Tuesday we meet.

And afterward, we’ll go out to Santa Fe or Two Boots, I’m sure, and order passion fruit Margaritas and talk late into the night the way we always do.

NO WORDS_DAILY PIX BY HUGH CRAWFORD

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_A TEMPEST IN A TEAPOT

Cathy Hannan’s postcard earlier this week, BLOCK PARTY GRIPES, really touched a nerve with OTBKB readers.

I kind of thought it would.  And when it got picked up by Curbed, I knew a lot of people would see it.

And the comments keep on coming.

Reading them, I can see that there’s a lot of anger in Brooklyn right now. The real estate bubble has turned parts of this borough into a rich person’s place. You simply can’t afford to buy or rent in “brownstone Brooklyn"  unless you’ve got bucket-loads of money.

And not having a lot of money is the reason many people (myself included) came out here in the first place.

But Brooklyn isn’t just about money and gentrification and groovy Fifth Avenue. There are other Brooklyn’s too. Like the Brooklyn where my mother grew up on Avenue J in Midwood. Or the Brooklyn of public housing in Coney Island where my good friend, Rose has lived for 30 years. There’s Caribbean Flatbush, hipster Williamsburg, Hasidic Crown Heights, WASP-y Brooklyn Heights, the Navy Yard, and Red Hook.  And lots more.

Brooklyn is way more than $800 dollar strollers and ‘block parties at The Gate where people drink microbrews and get take-out from the Chip Shop.’

Just check out the exhibit at the newly renovated Brooklyn Historical Society called “Brooklyn Works” and explore the working class, immigrant roots of Brooklyn

Brooklyn is many worlds within one borough and that’s why it’s such a fascinating place. A plethora of  cultures existing side by side. Yes, there is tension, but there is also synergy and collaboration. And despite the cultural and class differences, most people want a good life for themselves and their families.

I agree with one OTBKB commenter who wrote: “City living should not mean shit in the streets, open and notorious drug use and destruction of personal property. I thought the notion that people should have to move to the suburbs for decent quality of life went out with the Dinkins Administration.”

Having lived in the East Village in the 1980’s, I grew to hate the noise, the garbage, the loud radios, the drugs, and the decrepit state of things.

Decency is not a class issue. People at all economic levels deserve to live in clean, quiet neighborhoods where no-one plays music until the wee hours of the morning.

Yet, people have different thresholds for noise, dirt, chaos, and spirited street life. Some people hate street fairs, block parties, parades, and other civic outpourings. Others love it.

There’s a thin line between what makes a city great and what can turn it into a nightmare place to be. Fortunately, New York City dwellers seem able to respect one another more often than not. It is actually quite amazing what a peaceful metropolis this is: for the most part, people abide by the social contract and try to make our streets as livable as possible.

In other words, we are a community of diverse individuals who somehow manage to co-exist in an interesting and productive way.

Most of the time. 

Sadly, diversity – ethnic, racial and economic – isn’t always easy. It’s tough to live in such a heterogeneous place where envy and greed go head to head. I agree with Sammy Boombastic who commented: “There’s a total war going on under our noses in the neighborhood…the old school Fifth  Avenue area Park Slopers vs. new schoolers  that moved in once the crime went away and got replaced with Steak Frites places.”

Yes, there is a tension between old and new. And it can get pretty ugly at times. But there’s always that kind of tension. Just talk to the Park Slopers who got here in the late 1960′s and early ’70′s when you couldn’t give a brownstone away. They resent those who got here in the 80′s, who resent those who got here in the 90′s who resent those who got here after 2000…

Brooklyn is a complicated mix of people, cultures and things. Mushed together, we struggle to live in close proximity. Wish us luck. But it’s worth the struggle. Really it is.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_FREE SWIM

Another hot day in Tracy and we decided to see if the Days Inn would let us use their pool. Yesterday as we were driving away from the pool at the Phoenix Lodge (pictured to the left), we spotted a big pool with nice patio furniture and pristine white umbrellas at the nearby Days Inn. The clear blue water looked delicious; not a soul was swimming there.

I brought my daughter into the hotel lobby figuring that when they saw her – in her swimsuit and towel – they would be unable to resist.

Wrong. "We only let guests use the pool," the lady at the desk assured me.

When we got back in the car, my daughter said: "Let’s  go to the pool from yesterday." And that’s exactly what we did.

On the short drive over, I was just hoping that the guy from yesterday would be there and he’d let us swim again. I decided in the car that if he said no for any reason I’d offer to rent a room – the rooms were $49 dollars a night my husband noticed. That way, we’d have access to the pool until check-out time tomorrow.

But that wasn’t necessary. I walked into the office underneath the neon vacancy sign:  "Hi, we’re back. Can we please use your pool again?" I asked feeling like I was talking to an old friend. The man smiled and said, "Sure. Just don’t swim too long."

Bingo. I’m in love with this guy. The nicest guy in all of Tracy, California. He may be the front desk person at a slightly down-at-the-heels motel just off the freeway, but he’s my kind of guy: generous, easy going, and willing to let my little mermaid swim.

The Phoenix’s kidney shaped pool looked more beautiful than ever. The water glistened and glowed in the sun. The fake Mexican tiles on the edge looked positively tasteful. Even the dirty white plastic chairs were inviting.

My daughter jumped in – her own private pool right by the freeway. I cooled off in the pool too. And would you know it – I was able to put my right heel down for the first time since my calf injury two days ago. This pool has magic powers is what I was thinking.

When we left, I jotted down the address of the Phoenix Lodge down in my noteboo: 3511 North Tracy Boulevard, 95376 ((209) 835-1335).  I intend to write that man a note thanking him for sharing his underused pool on two hot August days. What’s more,  I plan to spread the word about the Phoenix Lodge: A nice inexpensive motel next to the freeway with an awesome little pool. But more importantly, the guy at the front desk is cool. He might even let you have a free swim.

ONLY THE BLOG KNOWS BROOKLYN RESTAURANTS_TV DINNER

by Cathy Hannan
OTBKB Guest Writer

Da Vincenzo
256 Prospect Park West
718-369-3590
Hours: Tuesday through Friday 5-10pm
Saturday and Sunday 2-10pm
Closed Mondays

Da Vincenzo is  a  new Italian restaurant at Prospect Park West and
Prospect Ave.  The menu seems promising: pastas, salads, a nice selection  of
appetizers and entrees, and a kids’ menu. Prices range from about $6 dollars for a salad to $22 dollars for a veal dish. There’s also nightly specials that the grandfatherly waiter had scribbled on a notepad. They’ve got a decent wine list, some at just $5 a glass, 6 beers on tap, about ten in bottles. No liquor.

Formerly a bakery, it just opened last week. As Regina  Bakery, this
was the place in the last scene of As Good as it Gets when Helen Hunt and
Jack Nicholson were on the street "looking for warm rolls" at 4am.

I really wanted to like this place! We need a nice Italian restaurant
over here. I think it has "Hit or Miss" syndrome like the Japanese, Thai,
Mexican  and Indian places on Prospect Park West. Some dishes are good,
some are awful, like you think maybe the cook is trying to weirdly Americanize
the cuisine and failing miserably. The Thai place down the street serves
its egg rolls with Kraft barbeque sauce…

The stuffed mushrooms were a little strange, they reminded me of a
Salisbury Steak TV dinner.  The delicious house special is Tubettuni Da Vincenzo:
small tube pasta with tomato sauce and eggplant, baked in a eggplant shell.
But the pesto pasta was inedible: overcooked, and flavorless. The
sirloin steak was nice– flavorful, cooked as ordered, served with simple
sides.

Overall, the portions are large and a good value. Desserts range from
fair to okay.

But they commit the ultimate restaurant ambiance sin: There’s a TV! I
could understand if there was a proper bar area,  but they don’t have one. 
Is it really necessary to watch sports above the bar? Are the neighborhood
guys really that reluctant  to talk to their wives during dinner? They were
playing some nice cheesy Italian rock music, so I suppose I should be
grateful that they at least had the television’s sound turned down.

The crowd is a  mix of young hipsters and older Windsor Terrace
couples. They have outdoor seating, when I went it was a beautiful cool night
and its very open, you can actually enjoy sitting outside.  Service is
attentive. I’m sure they’ll work some of the kinks out of the menu, once they’ve
been open a while longer.

NO WORDS_DAILY PIX BY HUGH CRAWFORD

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Swimming on the Freeway

by Louise G. Crawford

August is hot in the Central Valley of California. Daily temperatures reach 95 or more. Unlike Brooklyn, though, it’s not very humid. Still it’s quite steamy outside in the middle of the day.

Unfortunately, the pool that we used to swim in on the farm is no longer ours to use. My mother-in-law is in the process of having a new one built — it should be done in time for next summer. Which means that my kids have nowhere to cool off in the mid-day sun.

So today we decided to take a trip to the town pool in Tracy because my daughter was desperate to go swimming. Desperate. She was ready to go in her striped tankini and flip flops just minutes after we announced the expedition.

Vroom, vroom, we zoomed into town. But sadly, the town pool was closed; open only on weekends now that California schools are in session.

Disappointment all around. But not for long. Determined New Yorkers, we decided to try to find a local motel or hotel that would allow us to use their pool. We frequently use the pool at the Mariott Hotel in downtown Brooklyn for summer dips. They’re happy to oblige for a small fee.

Easier said than done in Tracy, California. First we went to the old Tracy downtown where there used to be lots of 1960′s style motels with neon signs and kidney-shaped pools.  As a college kid, my husband used to take lonely color photographs of those motels – his stab at William Eggelston-style Americana.

Only one of those motels is still standing in Tracy and the pool was…dry.

Then we ventured to find the local Holiday Inn, Best Western, or Motel 6.  At the Holiday Inn, the woman at the desk suggested that I rent a room for $98 dollars. "It comes with a continental breakfast," she said enthusiastically. "But it’s against hotel policy to let non-guests use the pool."

Finally we spotted a tiny pool behind a chain-link fence near the freeway. I went into the office of the Phoenix Lodge and asked the man at the desk if it would be okay for my daughter to use the pool. "For a fee of course," I added. He thought for a moment and said "You can use it for free. Just keep an eye on your girl. There’s no life guard."

Woo hoo. We had our pool.

My husband and I sat at a white plastic table on white plastic chairs as my daughter swam and splashed in the small (occupancy 12) kidney-shaped pool with a view of the nearby freeway, a gas station, a tall palm tree, and an In and Out Burger across the street.

No problem for my daughter, who swam joyously for over an hour. I even took a dip, which was very therapeutic for my strained calf muscle. My husband didn’t go in. He thought it too funny, too strange to be using a motel pool next to a freeway exit in his hometown.

Too strange.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Wassup with the Armory?

by Cathy Hannan
OTBKB Guest Writer

I keep wondering if the Park Slope Armory renovation at Eighth Avenue between 14th  and 15th Streets is having any impact on housing prices nearby. I’ve looked at some places close to it (one even right across 8th Avenue from the armory), and no brokers have mentioned it.

Is it just too soon? I hope that Ratner’s Sportsplex construction hasn’t changed anything regarding the Armory.  Same goes
fo NYC not getting the Olympics.

After an announcement almost 14 months ago, very little renovation work seems to be going on.  Borough Prez Marty Markovitz made a big deal at the beginning of July 2004 about the $16 million, two year renovation that would turn the nearly empty Armory into a "world class sports center".

Today all the progress that seems to have been made is that the scaffolding is gone and some roof drainage is in place. I’ve heard that work is being done on the interior but it looks pretty quiet, and peeking in the windows on 15th street doesn’t reveal anything other than a big
open empty space.

According to Ann Schaeltzel, legislative aide for Assemblyman Jim Brennan, Take the Field, the organization in charge of the project, expects to begin work in October 2005. The reason for the delay is that before permits are issued, Take the Field must submit an environmental
assessment, which includes a traffic study. The City requires that the traffic be
study to be conducted when school is in session, so it’s expected that the traffic study will done the second week in September and the Environmental Assessment  will likely be completed by late September.

Once work plans are in place,  Assemblymember Brennan plans to host,
along with Councilmember Bill de Blasio, an informational community meeting so neighbors can be up-to-date on the progress and plans for the sports facility at the Armory. Nothing is scheduled as of today, but hopefully by early fall they’ll be able to tell us if completion in 2006 is realistic.

I hope so. How great to be able to take yoga classes, play some hoops and maybe volunteer right in the neighborhood!

Armory photo by Cathy Hannan

Cathy Hannan has a blog called Lost and Frowned where you can find out about her Found Slide Foundation and watch a 24-hour webcam of her cat. Her slides will be part of the Howl Festival on Saturday August 27th at the Bowery Poetry Club.

NO WORDS_DAILY PIX BY HUGH CRAWFORD

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Brooklyn Tour Guide in San Francisco

by Louise G. Crawford

San Francisco will always be my second favorite city, after Brooklyn of course. We spent the weekend at the Nob Hill Hotel, a small, boutique hotel on Hyde Street near downtown. Decked out in French boudoir style – the hotel is a lot more modest than the name suggests. But it was clean, the friendly staff was helpful, and the guests were a nice bunch of European travelers. Continental breakfast in the small restaurant downstairs was a convivial affair with Costco muffins, weird bagels, and decent coffee.

My mother flew in from New York to spend the weekend with me and my kids. My husband was off at the Monterey Historics, an annual race of historic cars at Laguna Seca Race Track. So it was up to me, Brooklyn-girl,  to show my mother San Francisco. And I must say I’ve become a pretty good tour guide.

After years of visiting San Francisco, I know all the cool spots to take tourists. And I deserve a medal for finding activities to satisfy an 8-year-old, a 14-year-old, and an 78-year old.  Not the easiest task.

First and foremost I wanted to give her views: Nob Hill, Lombard Street, and Coit Tower. Art: The Museum of Modern Art. Sights: Fisherman’s Wharf, the Tall Ship Balcutha, the Museum Mechanique, the Metreon. History: the Palace Hotel and the Ferry Building.  Fun: A cable car ride up California Street.

We didn’t do Pacific Heights, North Beach (City Lights Bookstore), or Haight Ashbury. But I think she had fun. And we did find some tasty food and California wine at Maxfields in the Palace Hotel, the Hyde Street Bistro, Tai Chi (my sister-in-law’s favorite nabe Chinese place on Polk Street), Dungeness Crab and Corn Chowder at the Mermaid Grill, and Asian noodle soup in the great food court in the Metreon.

For me, the fun of San Francisco is walking the hilly streets, the light, the views, the architecture, observing the locals, poking into fun shops, plugging in at Internet cafes and browsing in bookshops. I didn’t get to do too much of that this time around – busy tour guide me – but I did find a perfect little cafe on Sutter Street for eavesdropping and e-mailing.

Back on the farm, I am invalid girl with a strained calf muscle. We’re off to the town pool for a swim and a therapeutic soak. It’s so gorgeous out here – I am staring at a voluptuous rose bush, walnut trees, a big blue sky and Mount Osso in the distance. Couldn’t be farther from the Nob Hill Hotel (or Park Slope for that matter) – but California is full of wonderful contrasts.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Something About California

by Louise G. Crawford

Funny thing. I often get a toothache or some other kind of physical ailment when I am in California. I’m not sure why. Maybe being on an airplane does something to my teeth or my ailments are stress-related (not that being out here is stressful or anything). 

Sometimes I arrive with the pain. Other times, it develops while I’m here.

In 2001, I arrived just days after my first root canal. My mouth was throbbing and I was downing pain killers like chewing gum. After a week or so the pain went away, and I was much more fun to be around.

In 2003, we were driving around Oakland, California when I began to feel pain in my mouth. The next morning I woke up with a raging toothache. The pain was so excruciating that I went to see my mother-in-law’s dentist in Tracy. He couldn’t find anything wrong but he agreed to prescribe painkillers and suggested I see an endontist in Modesto.

The next afternoon, we took the freeway to Modesto, home of Chandra Levy and Laci Perterson, and arrived at the endontist’s office just as a blackout was descending on the Mid-West and the East.  "You may want to see what’s going on in the New York," the nurse said when she found out we were New Yorkers. She sat me in the dentist’s chair and turned on the television.

It was frightening to see images of New Yorkers trapped in subways and walking across the Brooklyn Bridge, images eerily reminiscent of 9/11. I had simultaneous feelings of relief and regret that I wasn’t in my city during this latest crisis.

Then the endontist, who was planning a trip to New York, took a look inside my mouth. He banged around with a wooden stick and did an ice test to determine what was wrong with my tooth.

"Root Canal. You’re going to need one," he said confirming my worst fears.  "I can’t start on it on until Monday. Do you think you can make it through the weekend?"

"Uh uh,"  I mumbled while he continued to look inside mouth. I figured I had enough painkillers to get me through the weekend if the pain got really bad. "You can call me anytime," the endontist promised. "I or one of my partners can perform an emergency root canal if necessary."

On the ride home I tried to reach relatives in friends in New York to see how they were doing. Our neighbors on Third Street were having a big potluck BBQ, emptying their refrigerators so the food wouldn’t spoil. My sister and brother-in-law were hunting around for a battery operated radio, my mother was safe Manhattan, and my father and stepmother were coping near Saratoga. Everyone was fine.

I, on the other hand, had a throbbing tooth, the endontist’s telephone number, and hopefully enough painkillers to get me through.

During the weekend, I went with the kids to San Francisco. We did museums, some shopping, cable cars, and other sights. On Saturday I felt fine. But on Sunday I woke up looking like a chipmunk because my cheek was so swollen. I was the classic cartoon version of a person with a toothache. I was popping painkilers every two hours and sipping iced drinks all day feeling relief only when ice was on the tooth. I kept calling the Modesto endontist’s service but no-one got back to me.

I wanted to cry the pain was so bad. Eventually, we returned to Tracy and I took to my bed, writhing and waiting for the morning to arrive.

When I woke up the next morning my cheek was so swollen I couldn’t feel a thing – swelling is nature’s way of saying I’m sorry. I wore sunglasses and a wide brimmed hat tilted so that my cheek wasn’t exposed. My husband took a picture of me when we arrived at the dentist’s in Modesto. Believe it or not, I wanted a picture of this.

The endontist and the nurse talked about their golf game throughout the root canal. But I could care less. The procedure was painless and quick – there wasn’t much feeling left in the tooth.

When they were done, I returned the hat to my head, covered my eyes with dark glasses:  "the movie star from New York look"  and paid the bill (much cheaper than a root canal in Manhattan I noted).

On the way home, my husband and I jokingly decided to do all our dental work in California. "Hey, it’s cheaper to fly out here and go to Modesto for dental work than to do it on West 57th Street."

On subsequent trips to California there have been other toothaches, and last winter an earache had me feeling so dizzy I felt like I was on a sailboat in a stormy sea everytime I walked from one room to another.

And this morning, I heard the phone ring and started to skip toward the kitchen when I felt a spasm in my calf. When it was over, it was too painful to put my right heel down. My muscles was either torn or strained. In either case, it meant pain and difficult walking.

I limped into the bedroom and called my personal trainer in New York who knows a great deal about these sorts of things. "R.I.C.E. Rest, ice, compress, elevate," she said with certainty after I told her about my injury. "And don’t walk on it for a while." She later sent me pictures of ligaments by email.

I lay in bed or on a lawn chair most of the day with my leg propped up on pillows. My husband made a make-shift Ace bandage and kept me in ice packs all day. I can only walk wearing high heeled sandals.

It wasn’t such a bad day afterall. My husband waitied on me hand and foot. I finally finished "Bel Canto" by Anne Patchett, a fabulous book, and I went for a ride in the orange Porsche at twilight, a nice little break from the invalid’s life.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_CHILD WRITER

by L. Tucker
OTBKB Guest Writer

When I was a kid, I wrote a story for school called “I’m Audrey” and it was about this ten-year-old girl who got sent away to boarding school.  There were the typical  boarding school experiences and hi-jinks: whoopee cushions, bad lunches, massive chases across the playground, boys; not much school – like Annie for the middle classes. 

Audrey and her friends were independent creatures bound loosely by the adult world, even if they were under the impression that they were in control.  I don’t even remember most of it anymore, just that I was passionate about this story and this character.  She had a little sister named Terrilyn and all of my classmates in school were characters in one form or another.

I even remember that my Dad took me on one of his business deals (always leaving me in the car) and we drove up to what looked like the school of my imagination.  I felt a quietly buzzing, intense excitement as I realized that my story had some truth to it.  I sat in the car dreaming about my story – developing characters and plots.  When my father came back, I asked him if that was a school and he said he didn’t think so.  I insisted it was until he finally said that it probably used to be a school.

I already knew at that age that I would be moving to New York one day, so I set the story in Queens – my teacher made a face when I read that part.  (When I did actually live in Queens for two years, there was a school in Astoria that I really connected to – an old-style public school that felt familiar, as did the rest of Astoria, but I digress.) 

The kids in my class and my teacher were very enthusiastic about my book.  I have no idea where it is now.

Nowadays, it can be difficult to come up with a story, even though as an adult, I have many more experiences to draw from.  I wonder if I were to read "I’m Audrey" again, would I recognize myself in the writing? Do I still have the same sense of adventure that I did as a girl?  It’d be nice to have the story as a reminder, when I need to be reminded.  Sometimes I forget and sometimes I remember.

NO WORDS_DAILY PIX BY HUGH CRAWFORD

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_BLOCK PARTY GRIPES

by Cathy Hannan
OTBKB Guest Blogger

Everyone hates parades: they screw up traffic, they leave a huge mess, and really, they’re just not that fun. I think the same thing goes for block parties. What is it about Brooklynites loving their block parties? Is it really that exciting to be able to stand in the middle of your street and drink a beer and grill a hotdog?

My Park Slope (vicinity) block had one last weekend. They put up signs, which said that the police would be towing cars…wha-huh? Can they do that? I don’t have a car, but let’s say I did and I didn’t want to move it for their block party…could they tow it and legally make me pay to get it out? Does anyone know?

I started to dread the upcoming weekend. Which really sucks. I work hard all week and now I’m dreading the weekend?

Last year’s block party consisted of crack smoking (really! in the street!), barbecuing directly under my window, 50 Cent on repeat for about 18 hours, an open fire hydrant that left our water pressure at a brown trickle, followed by the morning-after discovery of shit-filled  diapers on the sidewalk, rotting meat left on top of  our garbage cans, broken glass everywhere, half-smoked blunts in the flowerpots. And of course, no one who participated in the party had any intention of cleaning up the mess.

So this year, we packed up the family (me, husband, cats) and checked into a hotel to avoid the block party. Yes, I felt like an old fart– very elitist yuppie scum. But it was worth every penny. And in case you ever need to do the same thing, I’d highly recommend the Parker-Meridien. Mod rooms, great service and their pet policy?  "We don’t have one…" said the person at the front desk. They didn’t bat an eyelash when we showed up for early check-in,  cats in tow.

So since we were away, I’m not sure if this year’s block party  was a repeat. All I know is the aftermath was just as bad.

The people on my street seem to be living in some kind of upside-down world with  opposite-day mentality. The morning of the party, one of the organizers had his friend from the sanitation department come by and sweep the street so it’d be all nice and clean. Your tax dollars hard at work.. Do you think he had the guy come back to sweep up the mess afterwards?

Nope.

So a week later there are still beer cans, silly string, and every kind of
disgusting trash item you can imagine festering on our street. I just don’t get it…I’m not cleaning it up (yet) because I really want to see how long it’ll take before someone does anything about it. I’ve lived in NYC for 17 years so I’m semi-immune to trash and disgusting streets, but our block looks and smells like a  third-world slum.  I’m asking, because I sincerely wanna know: What’s wrong with people?

Cathy Hannan has a blog called Lost and Frowned, where you can obtain information about her Found Slide Foundation and see a live webcam of her cat, Sme. Her found slide collection will  be part of the Poetry Game Show this Saturday August 27 at Bowery Poetry  Club .

NO WORDS_DAILY PIX BY HUGH CRAWFORD

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_NEWS FROM WISCONSIN

by Steve, b61 Productions

Last month I received this email from my parents:

"Check out Wisconsin news. . . The old tire recycling plant is on fire. . . It looked just like the pictures from Iraq with an oil line fire. . . The drought is a concern. Another concern is ground water contamination. . . So far we are fine and have some real excitement."

The story made international news the first day. But the 400,000 tires–piled 35 feet high–burned for six days. If not for a space-age cooling agent shipped in from Georgia it would have likely burned for another week at least. More than 100 fire departments responded with 14 million gallons of water before the fire was extinguished.

Watertown Tire Recycling LLC had been reduced to a thick, black plume of smoke that choked a town of 20,000. For years neighbors had complained that the pile of tires was not only a blight on the rural area, but also a tinder box. The State Department of Natural Resources had been unsuccessful in persuading the owner, Thomas Springer, to comply with his permit for only 200,000 tires.

There are tremendous amounts of used tires that need to be recycled. And the State feared steep fines would bankrupt an especially prodigious gatherer of used tires–Springer continued to collect tires even while the fire raged.

Many of the pre-fire complaints were submitted to the Watertown Daily Times’ "Voice of the People." The aftermath was also discussed there. Predictably, most letters took the form of "We told you so." To which the following is an unedited response:

To the Editor, Daily Times:

First of all I would wish all the criticism would stop. My fiancée does work for Tom Springer that is the "boss" and that would be his place of "employment." We live on the same road as well as others. Do we complain about farmers dropping manure all over the road when it gets all over our vehicles? Or do we complain that their cows and yard stink? No, that is their form of living just like it is my fiancée’s job. Maybe we wouldn’t have had such a load of tires if the state had more companies to remove them.

Everyone who owns a vehicle is "guilty" when they get their tires changed. Farmers get their tractor tires changed. What would this state do if Tom didn’t have such a business to clean up the places that remove tires from everyone’s vehicles? Then the small businesses would have to shut down because it had too many tires. Would they burn them? Would they take them to the dump which also has lots of tires? People need to quit being so ignorant. They should worry about themselves and not what’s going on down the road.

In the end I hope all turns out for the best for my fiancée and the rest of the employees so they can continue to "support" their families. Otherwise, the next thing will be criticism for living off the state and the taxpayers. So the moral is there is a lot of people in this world trying to help out others and all you get is "dumped on" by rude, ignorant people.

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_Embarrassed in the Slope

 

NO WORDS_DAILY PIX BY HUGH CRAWFORD

POSTCARD FROM THE SLOPE_MEMORY CAR

by Louise Crawford

Yesterday my husband and I drove his mother’s old diesel Mercedes up to Sonora, an old gold mining town in the Sierra foothills. We were on mission to pick up the orange Porsche 914/6 he inherited from his uncle who died in 2002.

More than 2 years ago, my husband delivered his sports car to the garage of a world famous Porsche race car driver and mechanic. And it’s been in rehab ever since.   Prior to 2002, the car spent more than 18 years in a barn and was covered in mud, bird poop and the exhaust of bats (pictured to the left: the car after it was initially cleaned up).

We were pleased to see that this man was able to bring the car back from oblivion. He even had it painted the original bright pumpkin orange– OMIGOD ORANGE. You can’t miss it.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. The car was such a mess the last I saw it. Truth be told, I was pretty furious that he wanted to spend so much money repairing a car he would rarely use. But I knew it was  full of emotional value;  it was important, in memory of his uncle, that the car be restored to its former glory.

Seeing that bright orange car glowing in the sun, I understood why it meant so much to my husband. For the moment, I was even able to overlook the outrageous amount of money we’d spent to fix up the thing.

Truly, the  car is a thing of beauty: A work of art to behold and drive in with the top down.

I followed behind the orange Porsche in his mother’s sluggish Mercedes. My husband looked so happy driving the car down Route 49 to Tracy – even if it still made some funny noises and the carburetor sputtered a bit. It was a momentous day, really. A day for celebrating the car and the man who used to own it.

ONLY THE BLOG KNOWS BROOKLYN RESTAURANTS_Eels, Dogs, and Curry

Taro Sushi: 446 Dean St. b/w 5th and Flatbush.
Nathan’s: 1310 Surf Avenue, Coney Island.
Nio’s: 2702 Church Avenue at Rogers Avenue. 2 train to Church Avenue, walk one block west.

by Paul Leschen

The heat got to me. I was dehydrated once again, and I didn’t want to drink water anymore and was too tired to go to the corner store to find something more interesting to refresh myself with. My drummer canceled on me again for band rehearsal, and I was hallucinating and wheezing from the heat, and the baby German roaches were marching down the Reichstag in my kitchen sink, and…I needed to dine, and good. Only sushi could save me from melting into a puddle.

Taro Sushi brought mild, temporary joy back into my life. I ordered omakase, leaving the decision-making in the hands of the chef. It was $35, (if you spend more you’ll get a more elaborate meal) expensive enough to be considered self-therapy.

Taro is perhaps the least glamorous Japanese restaurant in the area. It’s small, and there’s nothing fancy about it except for the fish and the skill and devotion of the sushi-master. These folks didn’t open a sushi bar just for the money; they’re pesca-artists. Even so, most of the orders that passed by me at the sushi bar were for California rolls and Sushi Regular platters. Can’t vouch for the quality of the standard stuff, but my omakase was great fun.

I was served a monkfish liver appetizer, a raw oyster, shrimp, and scallop—after I ate the shrimp I was asked to return the head so that it could be fried. Yessss! A slice of fish and a sublime bite of sea eel, both flown in from Japan. Slices of salmon and fatty tuna. With each presentation, the guy admonished me to either use, or omit, soy sauce. The junior sushi chef (the soux-sushi chef?) yelled at me for not eating sushi in one bite. It was educational…

After the final spicy scallop roll I turned over and smoked a cigarette paid the check and left with a new lease on life. Thanks, Poseidon.

Summer in New York means the obligatory visit to Nathan’s with out of town guests. Rumors are true: the original Coney Island Nathan’s is superior to any other franchise location, especially those along the New Jersey Turnpike. It has something to do with a different, snappier casing for the hotdogs. The fries are better as well, and they’re still serving up frog legs and fried clams.

The crowd at the picnic tables is always amusing. This time it was the little kid, couldn’t have been more than six, who screamed (SCREAMED!!) toward his mother, “Get me a God d**m soda!!!!”

After some of us rode the cyclone, which is also fierce as is it ever was, we took a driving tour of Brooklyn and ended up at Nio’s Trinidad Roti Shop in East Flatbush. I wouldn’t say Nio’s is the best roti I’ve had, but this place is way up there. 

If you’ve been living in denial of the largest Carribean population in the U.S., and haven’t had a Guyanese or Trinidadian roti, I’ll explain. It’s like a curry-filled “burrito” made with a starchy skin that is somehow stuffed with ground yellow split peas. It’s filled with your choice of meats, usually still on the bone, and curry chickpeas and potatoes. Hot sauce is optional but recommended, but unless you were raised in Thailand, beware the red hot sauce at Nio’s.

I had a glass of mauby with my chicken roti, which I had confused with sorrel, the sweet red hibiscus drink. Mauby is bitter, and clear-colored, and likely made from some kind of root. I loved it. You can also opt for a bottle of Peardrax, a delicate pear-flavored soda from Trinidad.

Paul Leschen is currently musical director of The Great Official Subway Musical, which is part of FringeNYC 2005, a theater festival in lower Manhattan. He has written restaurant reviews for the New York Press.

NO WORDS_DAILY PIX BY HUGH CRAWFORD

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